


Lockdown

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Danger, Fingerfucking, M/M, Power Play, Trapped In Elevator, Vulnerability, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy gets stuck in a lift. Bubonic takes advantage. Or does he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lockdown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> A continuation of sorts to Sandrine's [Predicament](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6405289). Hope you enjoy it, hon!

“Hey man, I’m heading out.” Yeager leans against the desk and folds his arms. “You almost done?”

Tommy glances up to see they’re the last two people in the office. Where the hell had the time gone? It’d been five-thirty when he’d sat down to start this, and now—he checks the clock in the corner of the computer screen—shit, now it’s getting on for eight. “Yeah, almost. Gotta finish this report.”

Yeager flicks a look at the monitor and grunts, either at the mass of typos and grammar errors underlined in red and green or at the subject of the report. He levers himself off the desk and pats Tommy’s shoulder. “That was a bad one.”

“Yeah.” Tommy blows out a sigh and scrubs both hands through his short-cropped hair. It had been bad, all right. An environmental hacktivist had broken into the Port Authority’s computer system and sent the automated cranes and loaders on a killing spree. Sounded like something Wile E Coyote would come up with; the image of driverless forklifts on the rampage seemed kinda funny, since they had a top speed of maybe fifteen miles an hour, but when workers had been crushed between shipping containers or had luxury cars dropped onto them, there was absolutely nothing funny about that.

The only up-side had been that the hacktivist was easy to track. Laughably easy, in fact. She’d wanted to be found just so she could spout off to the media about why she’d caused millions of dollars worth of damage, killed five innocent people, and injured a dozen more. Determined to rain on her parade, Tommy had used his own skills to divert media interest. No way was he going to give her the chance to justify her actions in public.

“I need to run through this again,” he says, gesturing at the report. “You may as well get going.”

“Sure.” Yeager shrugs into his jacket and strolls across the office. “We’ll be in O’Malley’s if you fancy a beer later.”

“See ya.” Tommy sketches a wave and returns to the report. The screen seems to waver, and he blinks a couple of times. Hell, it’s been a long day. The thought of a cold beer and a plate of O’Malley’s famous chilli tacos is mighty tempting, but maybe he should get himself a coffee instead and make do with the memory of the sandwich he’d eaten at his desk earlier. One thing’s for sure, it’d be easier to edit this damn report on paper rather than on the screen.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, hitting the button to send it to the printer. Wearily he gets to his feet and stretches, lifting his arms so high his shirt untucks from his jeans. He relaxes, shaking the tension from his shoulders, and goes over to the drinks dispenser. He punches in the code for a black coffee and leans back against the machine as it whirrs and chugs. The sound seems unnaturally loud. During the day he barely notices it, but at this time of night, when darkness has settled over the skyline and the river rolls inky black outside the Unit HQ, he’s aware of every noise around him.

Including the absence of one particular noise.

The printer isn’t working.

_What the fuck?_ Tommy frowns, leaving his coffee after only one sip and going back to his desk. He could’ve sworn he’d sent the document to the printer on this floor, but nope. It’s gone to the sixth floor printer. With a sigh, he heads for the staircase. Might as well get some exercise. His footsteps echo as he jogs up the stairs, and the burst of activity clears his head a little.

The lights are flickering as he reaches the sixth floor. Must be an old bulb; he’ll tell Maintenance in the morning. He pushes through the door and collects the print-out from the empty office. The paper is still warm to the touch, comforting despite the harsh realities described upon it. He starts to read, walking slowly back towards the stairs. A quick glance shows him darkness beyond the door. Crap, looks like the faulty bulb blew out and took the rest of the stairwell lights with it.

He veers off to the elevator and presses the call button. Still reading, he grabs a pen from a nearby desk and scribbles a few annotations while he waits. A _ping_ announces the arrival of the elevator, and he goes inside and hits the button for the second floor. The light is much better in here after the dimness of the after-hours office illumination. He turns a page, frowning as he tries to parse his own sentence, and the elevator stops.

Tommy looks up. Just fucking great, this is all he needs. He punches the buttons a few times, then when nothing happens, he presses the alarm. When there’s no response from the night watchman, Tommy takes out his phone.

No signal.

Except he can always get a signal in here, always, which means—

The elevator car drops, sending him stumbling. _Shit!_ He hits the brushed steel wall and grabs at the rail to orient himself. The pages of the report flutter from his hands and strew across the floor.

The lift jolts to a stop. The lights flicker. _Oh no, not these fucking lights as well..._

Thinking through a fog of panic, Tommy remembers the CCTV camera in the corner. He takes a deep breath, raises his head, and looks right at it. “Hi, Bubonic.”

Silence. The lights flicker again.

Just when he thinks he might have got this wrong, that his nemesis isn’t fucking with him after all, that soft, smooth, oh so calm voice issues through the speaker grille in the control panel.“Why, Detective Calligan, you recognise my work. I’m flattered.”

Tommy aims a weary salute towards the camera. “Who else would hack into the Cyber Crimes elevator? Not to mention,” he adds, realising how oblivious he’d been, “our lighting system and I guess our computers and printers as well.”

“Any number of people.” Bubonic pauses. “I could give you a list.”

“I’m sure you could.” Tommy lets go of the rail and takes a step into the middle of the car, heedless of the fallen papers. He folds his arms and juts out his chin. “But you won’t. Not unless I do something for you first. That’s how it goes, isn’t it?”

“Well now, detective, I rather thought our song was played a different way.” Amusement curls through Bubonic’s voice.

Tommy’s face heats as he remembers the last time they’d met. The undercover op in the sex club, where he’d been drugged and handcuffed to a bed. Not the best circumstances in which to encounter one of Cyber Crimes’ Most Wanted, but it had got worse. With the stimulant running havoc in his bloodstream, Tommy had been horny and desperate. Bubonic had offered him a choice—get out or get off.

He’d chosen to get off. With Bubonic’s hand helping him along.

_You’re going to hate yourself for letting this happen_ , Bubonic had said, blue eyes glittering beneath the harsh black leather mask, a cruel smile on that soft mouth. _You’re never going to forgive yourself for giving in to me_.

Except time has passed, and Tommy doesn’t hate himself, and there’s sure as hell nothing to forgive. He knows there should be, but he can’t make himself regret that night. Okay, so he doesn’t want to stop and ask himself why, exactly; but there’s nothing wrong with that. Sex is sex. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

He sends a look of challenge at the camera. “I’m not drugged now.”

“Are you suggesting I’m only attractive when you’re under the influence? You’ve hurt my feelings, Tommy.”

The elevator car drops a few more feet.

Tommy’s heart almost punches out of his chest. He’s flung to one side, then he slips on the loose paper and smacks into the elevator wall. “Hey now, whoa! That’s not what I meant!”

The car halts, the cables groaning in protest. The lights dim.

“Explain.”

Tommy thinks fast, aware of the adrenalin pumping through his body. Usually it gives him the edge; usually he can let it out in action, but now he’s stuck here, trapped in a box, and though he has no issues with claustrophobia the situation is making him feel mighty vulnerable.

“Last time wasn’t exactly equal,” he says, “and I don’t mean because I was tied up and you weren’t. I mean because I was drugged. Because I would’ve responded that way to just about anyone. It wasn’t you, and that wasn’t me, either. I had no control over my actions or my decisions.”

“Am I supposed to be feeling sorry for you?”

“No. I’m just trying to tell you that last time didn’t count for anything. My choice wasn’t really a choice. There was no free will involved.” Tommy moves away from the wall again and looks into the camera. “But this time... This time it’s different.”

His speech seems to have stunned Bubonic into uncharacteristic silence.

“Isn’t that what this is about?” Tommy continues. “Unfinished business? Because I’m ready.” He spreads his arms in invitation. “You can do whatever you want. You kept your word. No, you did more than that. You helped me out, got me off, then you got me free. That means something.”

“You’re trying to paint me as virtuous.” Bubonic sounds bemused.

“I’m just telling it like I see it,” Tommy says. “You kept your word, and I don’t go back on mine. So come on. If you want me...”

“We don’t even like each other.”

Tommy snorts. “You don’t have to like someone to fuck them.”

Bubonic is silent.

The lights go out. When they don’t come back on, Tommy knows he’s being tested. That’s okay. He can wait this out. As long as it takes. He’s not gonna break, not this time.

The steel cables above him creak in warning, and the car drops again. Tommy braces himself, grabbing for the rail and missing it. Papers slide beneath his feet. The darkness is complete, the air seemingly sucking out of the elevator as it plunges. He hauls in a breath and grits his teeth, waiting for impact.

The elevator pings, and the doors roll open.

Relief washes over Tommy, then he stares at the fourth floor office revealed through the open doors. Seriously, the fourth floor? It felt like he’d dropped forty floors. He laughs, the sound little more than a rasp in his throat. Before he can collect up the scattered pages of his report and get the hell out of there, a figure steps into his sight-line.

Tommy would know him anywhere, would know him even if he wasn’t wearing that sinister plague doctor’s mask. Through some weird alchemy, Tommy knows he’d recognise Bubonic no matter what guise he wore. The tousled curls, the width of his shoulders, the very sense of him. And while a quick sniff tells Tommy that Bubonic has changed his cologne since the night in the sex club, his natural scent is still unmistakeable, and right now the dominant note in that scent is arousal.

Bubonic walks into the elevator. The doors close.

Darkness cloaks them. Total blackout at first, then as his eyes adjust, Tommy can make out shapes—a faint gleam along the beak of the mask’s nose, the glitter of Bubonic’s eyes, and is that a flash of teeth? Can Bubonic be smiling at him?

Something shifts low and hot in his belly. Tommy takes a step backwards, telling himself it’s so he has more space to manoeuvre, telling himself that he can overpower this guy easily. All he has to do is let his training kick in and he’ll have Bubonic on the floor and incapacitated in less than twenty seconds.

But it’s dark, and warm, and he can smell them both; he can feel the tension vibrating the air, he can taste the anticipation, sweet and rich, and his heart is in his throat and his dick—oh fuck, his dick is rock-hard and trying to bust a hole through his jeans.

“Turn around,” Bubonic says, low-voiced.

The sound goes straight to Tommy’s cock. Really he should be protesting, reading Miranda and all that, but instead he turns around to face the wall. Faint illumination leaks into the car, glimmering on the brushed steel in front of him. The rail digs into the ridge of his dick.

“Palms flat,” Bubonic orders. “Hands above your head. Good boy,” he adds when Tommy does as he’s told. “Oh yes.”

Tommy sucks in a breath as Bubonic runs both hands down his body. Like this, he feels open and vulnerable. Bubonic could slide a knife between his ribs or slice out his guts or—or could stroke those firm hands over his ass and _squeeze_.

“Oh yes,” Bubonic says again in an entirely different tone of voice.

The space between Tommy’s palms and the wall is becoming hot and damp. His pulse beats slow and heavy, his cock pressing against the fly of his jeans. If he tries to wriggle, the rail digs into him even more. Tommy thrusts against it by way of experiment. Oh yeah. If he angles himself just right, it provides some relief.

The darkness around them makes this easier, more exciting. He can taste it in the air, warm with eagerness. Tommy draws in shallow breaths and stutters them out again as Bubonic reaches around and clumsily unbuckles his belt. Muffled cursing follows, then a _clunk_ as Bubonic manages to hit his knuckles on the rail.

Tommy bites back a grin, but can’t stop the amusement quivering through his body. The clumsiness helps, somehow. Makes it seem all the more real, that they’re doing this here and now. It reminds him that Bubonic isn’t just a master hacktivist but a man like any other.

The buckle rattles free, the belt loosening. In a matter of seconds Tommy finds himself stripped down, button popped and zipper undone and his jeans around his knees. Maybe Bubonic isn’t like other men after all. Maybe— Tommy stops the thought on a groan when Bubonic reaches for his underwear and peels it down his thighs.

“Better,” Bubonic murmurs, cupping Tommy’s bare ass. It feels so good, Bubonic’s hands warm and surprisingly soft but for a couple of calluses. Another squeeze, then Bubonic sends his hands travelling down to Tommy’s almost-spread thighs.

“Open for me,” Bubonic says, and Tommy obeys, widening his stance as far as the constriction of his jeans and underwear will allow. Even though it’s dark, he closes his eyes, and that makes it even hotter. His other senses compensate for the lack of sight. He can hear Bubonic’s slightly ragged breathing, taste the sharp, metallic flavour of adrenalin and excitement, smell the musk of their arousal; and oh, the sense of touch is driving him _crazy_.

Though he’s being careful about rubbing his naked erection over the rail, Tommy jolts forward when Bubonic kneels down. _What the fuck_ , Tommy wants to ask, but he knows the answer. He knows, and he can’t stop the keening moan that breaks from his throat at the first delicate lick of Bubonic’s tongue over his hole.

“Jesus, fuck, no.” Tommy pumps his hips forward and his dick catches the shiny-smooth rail. Pleasure-pain blooms through him, reminding him of how he’d felt with the stimulant in his system. Just like then he’s losing control, and it feels too damn good.

Bubonic spits onto his fingers and resumes his game, slicking the wet digit around and around Tommy’s rim. Legs trembling, Tommy rocks on his feet. Then Bubonic stands. His jacket brushes Tommy’s bare skin, bringing into focus the smell of the city and the world outside. Then there’s a rustle, a snap, a squeezy sound.

Lube, Tommy realises a second later. Not cold, as he’d expected, but warmed, presumably because the container had been in contact with Bubonic’s body. It’s second-hand thoughtfulness at best, but Tommy appreciates it all the same, especially when Bubonic works the lube the length of his crack, fingers pinching, probing, slipping around his ring.

Tommy drops his head and leans against the wall. The touch of the cool steel helps orient him, but even having a solid support doesn’t stop shivers from running through him. Beneath his shirt, his nipples are hard points and his muscles locked with tension as his body yields.

Bubonic presses in close behind him, so close Tommy can feel the hard shape of Bubonic’s cock against his ass. Fingers still working, teasing the rim now, Bubonic rubs his free hand over Tommy’s nape. The short hair rasps and prickles; Bubonic’s palm is warm. Then the tender gesture turns possessive, Bubonic’s hand tightening before he pulls Tommy’s head to one side and sucks at his neck, bites at the soft skin there hard enough to raise a bruise that’ll surely keep the Unit in gossip for the rest of the week.

Bubonic circles Tommy’s hole one more time then makes the breach, pushing in deep.

Even though his eyes are closed, white lights sprinkle across Tommy’s vision. A deep groan wrenches from him, pleasure all-consuming as he braces himself against the elevator wall and pushes back, bearing down on Bubonic’s finger.

“God, yes,” he growls, and it’s such a contrast to the last words he uttered he wants to laugh. But there’s nothing funny about this, nothing funny about having a master criminal’s fingers—yes, two now, working in and out, scissoring and stretching—there’s nothing funny about—ohGodohfuck, now Bubonic is _thrusting_ those fingers inside him, and everything’s all slippery and squelchy and his breath is coming short, yeah he’s panting now, his palms sliding on the wall and sweat prickling down his back and beneath his arms and in his eyes, over his lips, and all Tommy knows, all he cares about, is _this_ —his nemesis finger-fucking him with enough skill to send him crashing into next week.

He lets go of the wall with one hand and grabs for his cock, jacking off with greedy, sloppy strokes that get faster and faster. The elevator shrinks in on itself, darkness roaring around them. It’s too hot in here, and the slight sway of the car is making him dizzy, making him feel as though he’s about to fall. His heart pounds, everything turning inside out. Though his hand is gripped around his cock, Tommy knows he’s not the one controlling his climax. Just like last time, he’s entirely in Bubonic’s hands.

The thought shatters what’s left of his control and sends him over. Tommy bucks twice and yells as he unloads against the wall.

“Fuck,” Bubonic snaps, the first thing he’s said for what feels like hours, and he withdraws his fingers from Tommy’s ass. Hurried movement, harsh breathing, the purr of a zipper, and then Tommy feels a rhythmic shuttling against his ass-cheek and realises Bubonic is jerking off.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, low-down and dirty, “stripe me with it. Give it to me.”

A hiss of indrawn breath—was that his name Tommy heard bitten off?—and then he feels the hot splash of seed over his ass and thighs.

When it’s finished, Bubonic takes a step back, but his hand is still curled tight in Tommy’s hair, his breaths swift across Tommy’s nape.

This chance might not come again. Tommy turns around and kisses him. It’s awkward with the darkness and the mask, especially with the mask with its long pointed nose, but Tommy angles his head and finds Bubonic’s mouth and kisses him, tasting him, and after a moment Bubonic kisses him back.

When they pull apart, Bubonic says, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why...”

“Goodnight, Bubonic.” Deliberately, Tommy turns to face the wall.

After a long hesitation, Bubonic fastens his trousers. The elevator doors open, and he leaves.

The doors roll closed again. Moments later, the lights come back on to reveal the extent of the mess they’d made together. The whirr of machinery starts up, and the elevator continues its smooth descent as if the past forty minutes or so hadn’t happened.

Tommy grins as he adjusts his clothing and uses the pages of his report to wipe up the spattered trails of jizz. It _had_ happened, and unless he misses his guess, it’ll happen again—and soon.


End file.
